Two Fates: Darkness
by Xtremeplaya
Summary: The Dursleys never stopped at verbal abuse. Dudley didn't just hit and punch. A mentally scarred Harry where it seems like all odds are against him. Silently begging for someone, anyone to help him, he throws himself off a bridge, and is somehow saved only by his magic. Essentially, Depressed!Harry/EventualEmotionless!Harry.
1. Preview

**A/N: Howdy all! This is my first little shot at writing FanFic, and while I am no JK Rowling, I do indeed hope that you might like the idea of a story like this. I mean... I'm gonna be writing it anyways, but if others enjoy it that is always a plus. Review what you like,hate, etc. and if you want to flame me, do so because it raises the review counter. ;)**

 **Either way, I own nothing of Harry Potter nor the publications, or surprisingly the movies either. Enjoy. Or don't.**

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Two Fates: Preview

If one was to look at Number 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, they would likely find a well-kept home, refined and almost immaculate. However a closer eye, or rather, one that was well-adjusted to the going-ons of Privet Drive would likely find more than a little off about Number 4.

The flowers in the garden bed seemed to drift from their stems over the walkway to the house when the wind blew. The blades of grass taller and shorter than their neighbors, rising and falling like small green waves, bristling in the breeze. The front patio had not been swept, evidence of fallen leaves and dirt that peppered the front door.

And if one was to look in through the kitchen window, which sat with a perfect view towards the rest of Privet Drive, one that Petunia Dursley often used for spying on her well-kept neighbors for her weekend gossip group, they would find dirty dishes in the sink, and a variety of messes found on the surrounding counters, between scraps of trash, and open envelopes peppered around here and there.

Something was very abnormal at Number 4 indeed.

* * *

Taking in the downtrodden streets, Harry observed the passing cars as they honked this and that; beggars on the streets yelling here and there as passerbys ignored them, continuing on their walk lunch. It was almost surreal. How you could get so caught up in your own life that you couldn't see all that was going on around you. Others so obsessed with their own lives that they cared for no others than themselves.

Was it selfish?

Harry decided it didn't really matter in the end. Turning onto the walkway to the Tower Bridge over the Thames, Harry fumbled with his hands in the pockets of his too-large shorts. Pulling up the corner of his faded shirt, which had fallen down his shoulder as his journey continued.

The sun beat down upon Harry's back, sweat forming on his brow as he walked and walked, unused to endurance, instead of sprinting where his specialty lay. A lesson from Dudley from the countless rapid chases.

As people hurried past him and traffic flew by, a tour ship sailed beneath the bridge. Life moving on.

How could a young boy, only 10 years old, barely enough to be on his own, was nothing more than a passing glance? No concerned stranger, no questioning officer. Nobody has cared all of Harry's life; why would they start now?

A random woman, dragging her two children by hand, had nothing except a glance for a lonesome child, walking through London all on his own. Didn't she know something was wrong? Would she even care if she knew?

No, Harry decided. It was quite unlikely that anyone quite cared. Why would anyone care about a poor, bespectacled child? A problem child for sure. An abnormal freak. A nobody who meant nothing.

 _Worthless. Worthless. Worthless._

The security guard was looking at him strangely. As if he was out of place. A split second on indecision. Does he know how close he is? But the guard just shrugs and lets Harry by. No questioning a small child wanting to go to the top of the Tower Bridge.

The elevator up is crowded and full, but nobody talks to him. Just pushes him out of the way to make room for the stroller. To make room for those so obviously better than him.

The view would have been magnificent. Harry dreams of what it must be at night. With the city lights shining into the sky, the sun settings on the water as you overlook the city. Shining spotlights and magnificence. Instead, smog fills up the view and the vicious sun continues to beat down. Nothing compared to the petunia gardens at 2, but blistering none-the-less.

The details seem to blend and blur together, until nothing matters besides the railing in front of him, and the endless depths below.

Short steps from an even shorter, thinner boy take Harry to the railing. A glass floor beneath as you see the cars run past. Day after day. Nothing really matters does it?

Shaking dreams of green lights and maniacal laughter fill Harry's thoughts. Flying motorcycles and the hope of food in the morning. Mysterious and magical possibilities. Thoughts that he has long dismissed as being of another world. Pointless. Useless. What point is the joy of the story besides an escape from the world that seems meaningless?

Rolling up his sleeves you see the long slices running across the wrists of the small boy. An unholy marking upon the pale complexion. Scars overlapping and hidden from view. Some new. Most not.

Short, shaky breaths seem to collapse out of his lungs. The bloody knife in his pocket leaving long gashes upon his hand. Bloody handprints on the railing. One of the tourists looks his way, but nothing more than a glance.

 _You can do it Harry. It isn't hard. Really it shouldn't be. You took a bus here, you walked all the way up. You're stronger than this._

Painful lashes upon his soul, seeming to tear his heart and mind apart as he contemplates what to did the kids at school say? Words that should never come out of some child's mouth. Dudley egging them on and Piers yelling the words in his face. What were they?

" _Kill yourself"_

Harry jumped.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: Well this certainly took a while to get out here. I've had this written up for quite a while but just haven't looked over it or planned on submitting it. I've had finals going on for quite a while and was dying there for a second seeing if I was going to stay within the program I have been working for 3 years to have. Finally though, its done. I should be more forthcoming with updates, although that isn't really a promise. I have no idea what I want the general length of chapters to be, but I will try to make them at least 2k-5k words.**

 **Hope you enjoy. (I haven't really spellchecked too well... oops)**

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Ghostly apparitions and swirling colors covered the darkness, pitch and black. Striking red and flashing green balls of light flying with bursts of energy shocking through the air like electricity. White beams of light flying faster than bullets; like daggers carving out the air before them.

Large beams of white wood rising out of the ground like stalagmites in a cave. Yew wood, deathly pale casting gruesome shadows, outlined in strange colors.

Harry could make sense of none of it.

A flying motorcycle. A screaming red-haired woman. Deathly words struck down suddenly in an obliterating blast.

A tall, lanky beast stood before Harry. Menacing and imposing as flames of light flashes behind it. Walking closer towards harry, holding out a stick of wood, pale with a small burst of green light spoking out from the tip, lying in wait to pounce.

A forked tongue hisses out strange words.

 _Avada Kedavra!_

The world is nothing but pain and deathly green lights.

* * *

"Professor, we can't keep him here unnoticed forever. The press has a right to free media - and with the fact that he is Harry Potter left unsaid - they will eat this story up!"

"Still, my boy, I must ask you to keep silent as long as possible… or... he could be put into the care of Madam Pomfrey at-

"No. I have my oath I must fulfill, and cannot peddle him out to whoever asks, no matter the status, nor trustworthiness of the individual. I am sorry Professor, but I will not do it."

"And if you take some Mediwizards with you to the hospital wing at Hogwarts?"

"That… That might work. I would have to clear it by my supervisors."

"Do not worry my boy, I will handle all of that. Make sure he is ready to move."

"If you say so Professor, and I believe his magic is protective enough to be ready."

"Then I will be back Mediwizard Ulten, I trust he is safe within your care."

"Of course Professor."

Whispers and words of drowned out conversation were truly the only thing that passed through his ears. A ringing that seemed to permeate through a bit of everything, nailing itself into his thoughts, and drilling what seemed like a hole behind his eyes, while the rest of his body seemed unusually numb.

 _Were there headaches in the afterlife?_

It felt like Harry as if he was floating in a pool of cool water, soothing his muscles and drowning his fears and worries away. The river Styx was never nearly compared to something of tranquility, yet in this case, it seemed to unusually fit the situation. The river of calm afterlife, ever flowing and removing your pitiful existence and emotions from your existence and replacing it with a tranquility that only the dead would know.

Harry decided he liked being dead.

And how could he not? There was no sun beating down on his back, drenching him in his sweat as he pulled endless, scratchy weeds from the gardens. Beating back bushes and brimbles and trimming the leaves endlessly. Or repainting all of existence in the shallow tones that the Dursley's seemed to enjoy so much. In fact, there didn't seem to be much of any discomfort besides for the never-ending headache inflicted upon him. And in all honesty, a headache was little to pay for some final peace and quiet.

No television blaring in the background. Or pounding on the cupboard door to get off his lazy bum and make something of his life than a hippie alcoholic, wasting his life away until he died like his parents did. Whispered words were strangely foreboding and calming in the same way. As if the words were important, yet held no meaning and thus, was not nearly important enough for him to worry of anything.

Harry didn't need a heaven.

Somebody was waking him up again. So soon after the peaceful rest he had enjoyed.

But maybe the comparison to Styx was more likely than he had originally realized. For this was indeed Hell if he was being woken again. Was there no rest? There was no meaning to the endless cycle of waking, and yet here it was again.

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"He's waking Albus." The voice seemed strangely wrapped in anticipation. As if waking was some sort of accomplishment.

"I can feel it." This voice was much deeper, yet seemed to hold a strange sense of something Harry had never experienced before.

"And I have a sneaking suspicion that he will need a headache potion when he fully wakes Albus… this will no doubt be an interesting conversation." Light steps seemed to make their way across the room and a squeaky hinge made its presence known as this woman no doubt retrieved whatever a 'headache potion' was.

As Harry fluttered his eyes open, he quickly closed them again to assess the strange situation. An elderly man with a thin and spiny stature was sitting on a purple-cushioned chair with the longest white beard he has ever seen. Dressed in the full regalia of a bathrobe with twinkling stars and a long, pointed hat that one would traditionally find in the horror movies on the T.V., speaking of witches and ancient beings.

Behind him, was a woman fiddling around with the occupants of an unseen cabinet of which Harry could not see, yet was dressed as if she was an old nurse from World War II, and certainly looked the age of it too. From the posture itself, Harry could see she was a stern woman, likely similar to that women at 12 Privet Drive who constantly called after Harry, admonishing him for being a hoodlum and purposely wearing too-big clothes, " _Looking like a no-good druggie as always."_

Opening his eyes again to take a longer look and to observe the room, Harry could see through the floor-to-ceiling windows that the evening sun was just passing the caps of trees of a forest. And a further look showed old, chiseled stone that seemed to make up the majority of the surrounding room, as if the building was wishing to look both old and new at the same time. Something that was not lost on him.

A closer look showed the old man in more detail staring at Harry as if there was nothing he'd rather do. Not a word was said, nor a whisper heard besides the clunking in the background of rambling hands searching, and the drilling headache inflicted upon Harry.

Looking past the half-moon glasses and into this old man's blue eyes, Harry could see the orbs shining and twinkling as if they were merely stars in the sky, looking down upon Harry.

 _Was the man dead?_

He made naught a move. There didn't even seem to be the general movements of a man in waiting. No fidgeting and movement. Only the slow and steady incline and decline of his chest showed that there were any life in that body, the all-seeing eyes that drew a sense of uneasiness into Harry. As if something was wrong and Harry was the cause of it. How Harry could draw any sort of meaning from a blank stare was lost on him, yet the pervading sense of trueness with these thoughts agreed with him

Harry had done something wrong.

And he had known that of course. Suicide wasn't exactly proudly revered as some sort of option that the noble and brave of heart traditionally take. Especially among the British, were some war sentiments still remained. Never give up a fight, no matter the cost. Only the Japanese seemed to have a backwards thinking of the idea.

How this old man would seem to know Harry's decision of suicide seemed lost on him. The man did not appear to be a doctor. In fact, he looked like he might need one instead, with the strange look, and the fact that he was wearing a bathrobe in what seemed to be an empty hospital. Just a quick glance out the window instantly told Harry he was not close to London. And that just opened a whole can of worms that needed answering.

"It appears, my boy, as if you are just going to sit there all day and analyze your surroundings."

The words seemed to startle Harry. As if he wasn't expecting words to leave the man who seemed so lifeless. He turned his stare back to the old man, then back out the window across from him.

"I am Headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and I no doubt believe you have some questions." After a few moments of silence he frowned slightly.

"Is there a reason you do not speak?" He seemed to question it lightly, if with a bit of confusion.

"It is better not to speak… you get in less trouble… and people rarely listen much anyways." Harry's eyes seemed to be seeing more than just the horizon at that moment.

"I suppose that can sometimes be true. Yet, it can be equally important to ask questions. To seek for knowledge and to learn through inquisitiveness. It is not required to speak, but it can be beneficial as well."

"And what should I ask? Most of my questions mean very little, and there is only one that really means anything right now."

"And pray tell, what would that one question be?"

He seemed to be looking even deeper into Harry's soul at that moment. As if assessing all of his value with a single glance. Waiting for what Harry deemed to be the most important question to ask. Harry almost felt as if he was about to disappoint the man. But the man was no doubt used to disappointment if he was as old as he looked.

"Am I dead?"

The twinkle in the man's eyes lost its shine and the orbs became deep with seeming sorrow, darkening with introspection.

"No… I would think not. You are very much alive."

"Then that is a shame."

* * *

The Headmaster seemed to have been very disgruntled with that as he left soon-after with not but a small word about checking on him later. When the supposed nurse came over a moment later with an unknown liquid in her hand and instructions to drink fully, Harry easily complied, even if it was just so the woman would leave him alone to think for half a second.

Upon a second inspection of the room around him, it became quite noticeable that something peculiar was going on in this 'hospital'. As if the room was trying to hard to be a hospital, yet seemed to have none of its truly defining features. The room was clean, but not in the sterile way that a hospital normally was. And instead of pale colors and white walls, the matte gray stone walls surrounded with what seemed to be a medieval feel. Like they hadn't caught up to the modern century.

The beds too. They were more comfortable than they ought to be, and Harry would know. They seemed like they were paper thin, yet when felt, turned out to be fine satin with most likely an extravagant amount of threads. The pillows were firm but soft in the way that didn't let you sink down into them, but were a league ahead of anything like the threadbare sheets and pillows one could find under the stairs.

The nightstand next to him held no lamp, and upon closer inspection, there seemed to be not a single thing that used electricity within the entire area. As the sun fell below the treeline the entire room darkened considerably with it.

On one end of the hall, a tall double door of what looked like patterned dark wood which after observing the Headmaster open the door slightly and slip out during his interaction with the matron and her strange liquids. On the other end though, there was a smaller door with a plaque hanging from a polished nail that clearly stated "Matron's Office."

The rest of the beds, looking identical to the one he was currently in with their sheets tucked in and bed made, curiously had no other patients in them. If this was a hospital, no doubt there would be more than just Harry, right?

 _Something very strange is going on._

Quite suddenly, the matron's door was swiftly opened and the stern woman once again strode into the main hall with a neutral look on her face as she made her way to the same cabinet she was fumbling around inside earlier and took out another vial containing, yet again, another strange, pale-blue liquid.

With a stern look on her face she opened her mouth, "Now drink this, a dreamless sleep potion, and the Headmaster will see to you in the morning to no doubt explain some things." She looked expectantly at him, waiting for him to grab the potion from her outstretched hand.

Harry looked at her quizzically. "Potion?" However, the matron didn't respond, only continued holding her outstretched hand with supposed 'potion' inside.

With seemingly no choice, Harry took the vial from her hand and downed it back, swallowing past the particularly nasty taste. Quite suddenly, the already dark room blurred significantly, and Harry's eyelids became quite heavy as he drooped down against his pillow. With the details of the room disappearing before his blurry eyes, and only the silhouette of the matron's figure, Harry was lost to the world.

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A/N: I am working on another FanFic that I like the idea of significantly more than this, and am working on my own novel that I have been working on for a year or so. Updates might not be the most forthcoming. Leave a review if you want an update really, it helps knowing somebody is waiting for it or something.

The Fic I'm working on is essentially quite similar to that one fic about Voldemort's full life (don't remember the name, I apologize), except this one is about Grindelwald. I'm really liking it so far, and I'll be uploading the preview soon.


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